


Common Strangers

by VSSAKJ



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things occur in strange places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the context of some general RP nonsense where characters from several Tales games found themselves in a dungeon fraught with typical RP curses. Category as AU/Pre-canon is meant to clarify what point in time this particular Zelos and Kratos come from.

“Chosen.” He says it as warning, when this mysterious affair begins and they find themselves stranded in a strange series of corridors, caught between a party of four old travelling companions, a young girl with a doll, and a stoic white-haired stranger. The company would be of no consequence to Kratos if Zelos weren't here to sour all his silences with the worst traces of history. A small part of him wonders whether or not the Chosen understands what that means; the bitterest part knows Zelos does and makes his choices for spite.

Never friends and barely allies, the best and worst aspect of their relationship is the shared singularity with steel and magic. Kratos was Zelos's mentor, as he had been to Mithos in the long-reaching past, and Zelos had taken to the sword with a needy aptitude Kratos had never felt compelled to mention. Now, they weave their steps unthinking and war back-to-back like implications of one another, and their tangible animosity is at odds to their visible mutuality. He sees the strangers wonder—the blue-haired young man scowls suspiciously, and the pink-haired girl hides her curious glances—and offers them nothing in the way of answers. There is no simple way to explain.

 

“Chosen.” He snarls it, beyond warning, as their symmetry reverses and reverberates face-to-face against one another. There is no mocking in Zelos's face now, his eyes gone hard as old ice and clouded between fury and hatred. The cause of the battle is irrelevant, nothing more than a pebble rolling into a landslide; there is no question of 'why' or 'how' when the wonder has always been simply 'when'. Zelos's hair, ever unbound, sticks to his forehead like a bloodstain but whirls elsewhere to match his flowing swordplay, and dulls the quiet stains seeping onto his gloves and shirt.

Such a brilliant red, like the dead weight of a cruxis crystal, should be outlawed.

A flash of teeth and Kratos knows himself backed into a corner at last, breathing heavily and damned near desparate to rip every single brilliant hair from Zelos's skull. The Chosen's tongue darts unbidden across his lip instead, and he knows a very different desire.

“ _Zelos_.”

Ahh, how different.

 

“Chosen.” He speaks it not at all, fingers numb on a hilt he lacks the strength to draw and face wet with tears flown unchecked. A hundred, a thousand, one: all dead, and all his. One of the strangers moves to speak—to him, he presumes through the fog of misery—but graciously Zelos raises one hand to stop them and turns to encourage the party onward. That each of them carries their own griefs has been made apparent by the ghosts left behind; that he is uncertain he'll yet find the strength to move forward is something that Zelos already knows.

When he realises that he is and must be breathing, he stumbles into pace to rejoin the group, slowly progressing onward.

Let them look, and let him see Anna in his dreams.


End file.
